


Clue Game

by Chris_Quinton



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Rubies, Treasure Hunt, crossword puzzle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:16:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: Amanda needs help, and won't take no for an answer.
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Clue Game

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fanfic, starring three of my favourite Immortals.

The harsh grate of Presence brought Methos from sleep to full wakening in less than a heartbeat. His sword was already in his hand as the door bell buzzed an impatient fanfare. MacLeod, half out of bed, froze with his katana poised. Enemies didn't usually announce their arrival so politely. Methos revised that theory very quickly.

"Duncan!" shouted an all-too familiar voice and MacLeod fell back on the pillows with a groan.

Methos swore and flopped beside him, letting his sword drop to the floor. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Just gone one," MacLeod whispered. "Maybe she'll give up and go away?"

Methos gave his lover a disgusted glare, which had no effect in the darkness. "How long have you known that woman?" he demanded.

Right on cue came, "I know you're in there! Let me in! It's an emergency!"

"I'm not here!" MacLeod yelled. He slid the katana away, rolled over and buried his face in Methos' neck. "Tell me I'm dreaming," he pleaded.

"You're dreaming," Methos said soothingly. "She's a figment of your imagination."

"Duncan MacLeod!" It was an ear-piercing screech followed by a thud that sounded like a foot impacting hard with the front door.

"My imagination isn't that good," he groaned.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Methos drawled and his hand stroked down MacLeod's spine and bestowed a sharp pinch on his buttock.

MacLeod's startled squawk was drowned out by renewed hammering.

"Open up, or I'll hack your door into firewood and then start on you! This is an _emergency,_ damn it!"

In Methos' opinion she sounded impatient, frustrated, irritated even, but not as if she was in any kind of danger. At least, not from someone on her side of the door.

"Amanda," MacLeod called. "Go away and come back in the morning!"

_Well_ , Methos thought, _it was worth a try_.

"It _is_ morning," she answered waspishly. Then changed her tack. "Pleeease, Duncan. I really do need your help."

"Does she know about us?" Methos murmured into his hair.

"I have no idea. Why? Does it matter?"

"Not to me." Methos snickered quietly. "But it might be nice to set her off-balance for once."

"Huh," MacLeod grunted and reluctantly climbed out of bed. "This had better be for real, Amanda," he shouted, switching on the light, "or your life won't be worth living!" Without bothering to pull on a robe, he stalked through to the living room. Methos propped himself up on the pillows and watched appreciatively the flex and glide of muscles under that sleek expanse of tanned hide. _Damn, but the man was a work of art._

MacLeod unlocked the door and stood back. "Come on in," he said. "Make yourself at home."

"Nice view," Amanda purred admiringly, giving him a peck on the cheek. She was immaculate in green and cream, her dark hair a smooth, stylish crop. Judging by what Methos could see of his scowl, MacLeod was not impressed.

"So what is so important it can't wait until after breakfast?" he demanded, heading back to the bedroom.

"Don't be such a grouch," Amanda said, following close on his heels. "You're the only one who could help--"

"Good morning, Amanda," Methos drawled, his head leaning on one hand. He knew how he looked--eyes heavy lidded, thoroughly debauched with the sheet draped low over his hips, just covering his genitals, but showing the leading edge of his pubic curls. And the scent of sex was still just discernable in the air. "You have the worst timing of anyone I know. We'd only just got to sleep."

To underline his unsubtle point, MacLeod stroked a caress through Methos' hair as he got back into bed and stretched out at his side, tucking the sheet demurely around them.

To Methos' joy, the expressions on Amanda's face went from shock to annoyance--briefly--and finally to amusement. "I see," she said. "How long has this been going on?"

"A couple of months," MacLeod said, grinning. "Sit down and spill the beans, Amanda."

"And whose idea was it?" she demanded. She perched on the edge of the bed and glared at Methos.

"No one's," Methos said, yawning. "It just happened." Serendipity. As if they hadn't been dancing around each other for years.

"Inevitable, I suppose." She heaved a dramatic sigh. Then a wicked smile began to spread across her mouth. "Does this mean I get an invitation to a threesome?" she added hopefully.

"Forget it." MacLeod shook his head. "Talk, Amanda."

"Okay." She made a moue of disappointment and took a small padded envelope out of her purse. "I'll give you a little background first," she went on. "I have a friend. A very rich friend. A very rich and generous--"

"We get the picture," MacLeod interrupted. "How is your love-life an emergency?"

"It isn't! As I was saying, I have a friend, and he likes to play games--"

"Don't we all?" Methos purred and decided to up the ante. By the gleam in her eyes, the idea of trois-games had taken root in Amanda's devious head. He curled closer to MacLeod and wrapped his arms around him from behind, leaned his chin on the man's broad shoulder. He was rewarded by MacLeod's almost silent sigh of pleasure and the darkening of Amanda's eyes. He tightened his hold. Not that he was at all possessive, of course. "When we aren't being interrupted."

"Not those kinds of games! Well, yes, but--never mind! He likes to give me things, but he makes it a challenge. A treasure hunt. I have to follow the clues and the prize is always something pretty special."

###

For MacLeod, the sheer comfort of the arms around him was distracting enough, but he entirely lost the thread of her words as Methos stroked down his chest and under the sheet to cup his genitals. "Hmm?" he murmured, eyes closing as he relaxed even more in Methos' embrace.

"Duncan! Pay attention! Normally he plays with codes and anagrams, but this one I can't crack. Take a look."

She upended the envelope over MacLeod's lap and a small box fell out, followed by a folded sheet of paper. Methos removed his hand from MacLeod's cock and picked up the note while MacLeod investigated the box.

It was white, plain and unmarked. Inside was a tiny white velvet pouch, and when MacLeod shook it over his hand, something fell out. He stared at it, bemused. A single earring lay in his palm, an S-shaped swirl of rich gold twined around two large oval cabochon rubies the color of burgundy wine.

"'She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies'," Methos intoned. "'And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes--' and so on to the end." Methos put down the paper. "So your man sends you poetry and an earring. What's the emergency here?"

"It's a clue!" Amanda snapped, exasperated. "And at the end of it is the other earring!"

"I repeat," Methos bit back, "what's the emergency? Does it self-destruct in five seconds? World War Three breaks out?"

"Listen, you!" she blazed, "I have racked my brains for thirty-two hours trying to crack that code, and I can't do it! You have got to help me--both of you! Methos, your mind is as twisty as a double-jointed corkscrew, surely you can see through it? Help me, guys! Please! Serge is due back in Paris the day after tomorrow, and there is _no_ way I am going to admit defeat."

"And that's the only reason why you nearly broke our door down?" MacLeod demanded wrathfully, sitting bolt upright. "That's way out of line, Amanda! Even for you!"

"My door," Methos corrected. " You said he uses codes. What's his usual pattern? Why would he choose this poem?"

"I don't know! Every time before it's been either an anagram or an obviously encoded piece. But as far as I can tell, that poem is just as Byron wrote it."

"Yes," he said patiently. "You know how his mind works. What would be the key? The rubies?"

"That's what I thought." Amanda wriggled further onto the bed, kicked off her shoes and curled her long legs under her. "Then I tried every gemstone known to man, my name, his name, his damned dog's name--his ex-wife's name--even his favorite team's names. I've gone through every permutation I can think of and nothing works."

"Leave it with us," MacLeod said with a sigh. "Go home and get some sleep, and we'll take a look at it in the morning."

"But I'm running out of time!"

"You're running out of steam," he said. "You look wrecked, so--"

"I do? Damn it, Duncan!"

"Leave it to us. Go home, Amanda."

"I could stay here," she began.

" _No!_ " they bellowed in unison.

"All right!" She stood up and stepped into her shoes. "I'll see you after breakfast."

"You'll owe us," MacLeod warned, escorting her to the abused front door.

"I know, and I really appreciate it," she said meekly. She ducked her head a little and glanced up at him through her lashes. In her high heels, she was nearly as tall as he was. "I appreciate the view as well." Her hand rested lightly on his breastbone, lacquered nails teasing through the dark hair on his chest. "Tell Methos you and he have won me a hundred bucks."

"We have?"

"Yes. I bet Joe you two would end up having a fling sooner or later. He said no way. I won. Thanks, guys." She gave him a beaming smile and a swift kiss. At the same time her hand darted down to gently knead his cock and he couldn't stifle a gasp nor his body's response. "He better take good care of this," she added huskily. "G'night, honey."

Shaking his head ruefully, MacLeod went back to the bedroom. But his lover was not waiting for him with open arms. Methos was sitting up cross-legged, frowning at Amanda's clue.

"Did you hear what she said?" MacLeod asked, slipping under the bedclothes. "About winning the bet for her?"

"Mmm?" Methos said distractedly.

"She had a bet with Joe."

"Mmm?"

"That I'd have the Scottish flag tattooed on my cock and a haggis on each butt cheek."

"Mm."

MacLeod gave a snort of amusement. There were other ways to distract his tunnel-visioned lover. So he pressed a kiss on the nape of Methos' neck, just where the soft hair curled on the warm skin, and slid his hands around Methos' ribs to find the small discs of his nipples. They hardened under his palms as he gently massaged them and Methos sighed, slumping back a little. Slowly and with infinite care MacLeod licked and nibbled his way down Methos' spine, knowing it was only a matter of time before the piece of paper dropped forgotten on the bed and Methos turned in his embrace to claim a deep, tongue-probing kiss.

###

MacLeod came awake slowly, yawning and stretching in the sunlight that filtered through the drapes. A particularly wide stretch told him that he was alone in the bed, and a sniff confirmed that wherever Methos was, he wasn't in the kitchen brewing coffee. The shower was silent, so was the TV, and if it hadn't been for the underlying hum of Presence, he would have believed himself alone in the apartment.

Intrigued, he climbed out of bed and looked into the living room. Methos, naked but for the robe that hung open from his shoulders, was sitting cross-legged on the floor between the coffee table and the couch. On every surface within arms' reach were sheets of paper covered with words, letters and numbers, and columns of crossed-through scribblings. MacLeod grinned. It came as no surprise that Methos would be hooked by codes and their ilk, the more devious the better.

"No luck?" he said sympathetically and didn't mention that three words of the poem had leapt out and waved banners at him.

"Not yet," Methos admitted, scrubbing his fingers through his already tousled hair until it resembled a birds nest after a high wind. "Just how devious is this Serge of hers anyhow?"

"If he can keep one step ahead of Amanda, pretty damn smart," MacLeod said with a smile. "Coffee?"

"God, yes."

MacLeod strolled into the kitchen, set the coffee maker on to do its stuff, and checked out his guess. On the front of the refrigerator, held there by a couple of scenic fridge-magnets, was a leaflet advertising an art exhibition he intended to visit in the next couple of days. It was entitled 'Foncé et Lumineux' and had been organised and funded by the Foucard-LaJeunesse Foundation, a charity set-up that gave grants and sponsorships to up-and-coming artists in all fields, and he was a regular attendee at their various events. Methos had already declined an invitation to go with him, but MacLeod was fairly sure he could change his mind.

Of course, his hunch could well be wrong but sometimes the simplest answers were the right ones.

The phone rang, jarring him from his train of thought. Methos made no move to answer it, so MacLeod picked up the kitchen extension, and was not surprised to hear Amanda's voice.

"Have you solved it yet?" she demanded.

"Maybe," he answered, a grin growing. "Want to meet us for breakfast?"

"Sure," Amanda said with alacrity. "The apartment? The barge?"

"No, La Vigne d'Or on Rue de--"

"I know it. Eight o'clock?"

MacLeod glanced at the microwave clock--twenty minutes to eight.... "No way," he snorted. "Ten o'clock. On the dot."

" _Ten?_ " she shrieked and he winced.

"Yup." He put the phone down on her protest.

###

Getting Methos to the restaurant was more difficult. For half-an-hour MacLeod worked on it with a notable lack of success.

"No," Methos said for the sixth time. "There're a few more computations I want to try--"

"We'll bluff it," MacLeod assured him. "Coffee, shower, breakfast at the Vine. I told Amanda ten o'clock. If we get there earlier," he added in a rush of inspiration, "we can have another go at code-breaking."

"All right!" Methos snapped irritably. "But what's with the 'we'? I don't see you contributing anything."

"Moral support?" He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at Methos' jaundiced glare, and won a reluctant smile.

"Idiot," Methos said gruffly, but the insult was negated by the light in his eyes. "Why do I put up with you?"

"If you don't know after two months, one week, four days," MacLeod drawled, "and seven hours, I don't suppose you ever will."

"So true. It must be your natural talent," he added, coming smoothly to his feet and stepping into MacLeod's arms. "Your mouth and hands--"

"My imagination?"

"That, too," Methos whispered and kissed him.

###

They reached the restaurant at nine-forty, and MacLeod got them steered to a table that faced the window. It gave them a clear view of the front of the Lasceaux Gallery and the large banner that stretched across its pseudo-classical portico. Methos did his usual visual sweep of the area, and his gaze flickered back to it.

"Foncé et Lumineux," he said. "Dark and Bright." He shook his head. "'And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes'. You bastard! You let me flog my brains to a frazzle and didn't say a word!"

"Hey, it could be just a coincidence. Besides," he added straight-faced, "you looked as if you were enjoying yourself."

"Like hell I was! Revenge will be sweet, but not for you!" He might have said a lot more, but Amanda appeared in the doorway and brushed past the waiter to join them.

"So what's the solution?" she demanded, dropping unceremoniously onto a chair and gazing expectantly from one to the other.

"Not a one hundred per cent certain solution," Methos said after a slight pause. "Just a possible. Look across the street."

"Big deal. It's a gallery."

"Look again," MacLeod said patiently.

"At the banner," Methos added.

Scowling, Amanda obeyed. There was a moment of silence as her jaw dropped. "The sneaky bastard!" she whooped. "Serge, I am going to do unspeakable things to your body! Thanks, guys, you're brilliant! Come on, let's go!"

"We only just got here," Methos protested, "and MacLeod owes me a breakfast."

"I do?"

"Believe me, that's the least of it. Do you know what you're looking for over there, Amanda?"

"No problem. You can stick here and stuff yourselves if you want," she said jauntily and shot to her feet. "I'll just ask Reception if Serge's left a package for me. 'Bye."

"That's it?" Methos sounded scandalized. "All the blood and sweat we put in and she just swans off?"

"So it's Serge as in Foucard?" MacLeod drawled.

"You got it." Amanda blew them both kisses and strode for the door. By mutual and unspoken consent, the two men hurried after her.

###

Amanda hit a setback almost immediately. Monsieur Foucard had left nothing for her, neither package nor note, and arguing it with the autocrat behind the ornate desk in the foyer got her nowhere. Methos and MacLeod towed her away and walked her around the side galleries until she cooled off.

"This is crazy!" she hissed, jerking away from them. "You wait until I get my hands on him! There won't be enough of him left to spit on! He's a--" She broke off suddenly, gazing over MacLeod's shoulder. "OhmyGod. That's my earring."

On the wall behind him was a painting--a female nude done in the Surreal style, silhouetted in profile against a night sky. It was a study in angles and planes, of black, blues and whites, the only other point of color being the red stones in her ear. Two red stones in an S-shaped setting.

Methos peered at the small plaque beneath it. "'Estelle' by Julie Devaux," he read aloud. "Perhaps we should have a chat with her." He glanced at MacLeod. "You're in with the art crowd. Do you know her?"

MacLeod shrugged. "Not as much as I used to be when Tessa was alive," he said. "I haven't heard of Devaux, but the exhibition catalog should have her studio address." Amanda was speeding back to Reception before he had finished speaking.

###

The catalog gave them a studio address in Montmartre and a head-and-shoulders picture of the artist. She was a red-haired, harsh-featured woman in her late fifties, but there was a twist of humor to her wide mouth and a glint in her pale eyes that gave her a kind of majesty.

There wasn't a hint of humor or majesty when she opened the studio door to their knock.

"What?" she snarled. "Can't you read?" She jabbed a green and purple finger at a faded sign nailed to the frame. She was not much more than five-six, but her thickset frame made her seem shorter. "Callers by appointment only!"

"Now wait a minute," Amanda began hotly, starting forward.

Methos rested his hands on her hips and eased her back behind MacLeod's wide shoulders. "Let him deal with this," he muttered.

MacLeod gave the woman a smile. "Serge Foucard sent us," he said. "He told you to expect a visit?"

Her scowl deepened. "He didn't say anything about a deputation!" she snapped. "You better come in," she added reluctantly. "Just don't knock anything over." The warning was valid. The studio was a wide, spacious room with tall windows, but it was filled with a clutter of canvases, easels, odd lengths of wood and drums of unidentifiable substances. The smell of oil paints, white spirit and linseed hung in the still air like a miasma.

"So you know why we're here," Amanda said eagerly, elbowing MacLeod out of her way.

"I've got a damned good idea why you're here," Julie said with a snort. "But these two are a different matter. Did you need an escort?"

"No," Methos drawled. "Just our brain cells."

Julie gave a hoot of laughter. "Serge swore he'd fool you with this one," she said, her smile transforming her face. "And here you are with a couple of smart men in tow, if that isn't a contradiction in terms." She walked around them, her gray eyes raking over MacLeod and Methos as if she could see through their clothes to the muscle and bone beneath. "Interesting," Julie muttered half under her breath. Then gave Amanda the same intense scrutiny. "Very interesting."

"I'm sure," Amanda said crisply. "Serge left something with you for me, yes?"

"Yes." Julie nodded. "But first you prove to me you're the right girl."

"I'm Amanda Toussaint," she answered. "Do you want to see my driving license?"

"No, just a couple of things from Serge."

"But--"

"The earring, Amanda," Methos said, producing the poem.

Julie accepted them, gave them a cursory glance and handed them back with a wryly humorous ceremonial flourish. "Okay," she said. "Wait here."

She was gone only a few minutes and she returned with a small box identical to the one Amanda had shown them, and another envelope.

Methos leaned close to MacLeod. "I've got a funny feeling about this," he whispered, his lips brushing MacLeod's ear. MacLeod snickered and nodded.

Amanda had pounced on the box with a yelp of delight and was shaking the white velvet pouch over her hand. The matching earring fell out. "Oh, you little beauty!" she purred, and immediately swapped the ruby set for the plain gold studs she'd been wearing.

"Very pretty," MacLeod said approvingly. "But before you ditch us and run off, you might like to check the envelope."

"Oh," Amanda said. "As if I would!" She offered him her best, most sultry smile. "You guys have been a great help," she went on, ripping open the envelope. "But I'm sure I can manage on my own now."

"Oh, no, you don't," Methos cut in quickly. "You're not getting rid of us that easily."

"And you have a deadline," MacLeod reminded her. "When does Serge get back?" He reached forward and twitched the envelope out of her grasp.

"Duncan!" She tried to snatch it back, but he was too fast for her.

"Yes, it looks like another clue," he said, taking out the sheet of paper and holding it up. "It's a crossword."

"What?" Amanda groaned. "I don't believe it! I hate crosswords!"

"Let me see," Methos demanded, grabbing the note. He scanned it quickly. "Wonder why he used English for the clues? Hm. Not at all difficult, but we'll need to go back to the apartment."

"Why?" Amanda wanted to know. "My place is nearer."

"Maybe," Methos answered, "but do you have a copy of Hamlet?"

"Of course I do, several! In DVD and Blu-ray. Whose version?"

Methos sighed. "Shakespeare's," he said. "In book format."

"Smartass. I've got the Complete Works somewhere."

"Yes, well, I know exactly where mine are," Methos said smugly. "And we haven't had breakfast yet. I vote we go back to La Vigne D'Or--"

"No way!" Amanda snapped. "Deadline, remember?"

"I agree," Methos said absently. He had taken a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and was already filling in one of the answers. There was something about crosswords.... "Home. We can eat there."

###

Back at the apartment, MacLeod made sandwiches and coffee, while Amanda and Methos huddled together on the couch and pored over the clues.

"Four Down," Amanda said. "Yes, has to be 'ring'. And One Across is 'gold'.... This is sounding very promising." Her smile grew wider and her eyes acquired a decidedly covetous gleam. "But what's Two Down?"

"Ten Down is 'gift'," Methos said. "I sense a theme here."

"Yes!" Amanda crowed. "Six Across is 'bracelet', I bet you! And 'can be made of rope' has to be 'necklace'! Oh, Serge, you are a darling! What's left?"

"The only month in French that fits is 'Janvier'." Methos filled in the line as he spoke.

"Four Across," MacLeod said, leaning over them, his arms around their shoulders. "'Rubies' are 'above the price of wisdom'. It's a quote," he added unnecessarily.

Amanda bounced excitedly. "It's a complete set!" she gasped. "Oh my...."

"'Three' 'blind mice," Methos continued. "How about 'Descartes' for Two Down?"

"Works for me," MacLeod said. "'Victor' would fit in Eight Down. That leaves ow ab@Victor would fit Eleven Across and Three Down. I'll get the Shakespeare."

"O-something-I-something-something..." Amanda scowled at the clue. "He thinks I'm lovely. So do I, but I can't get a word out of it!"

Methos sniggered and scribbled letters. "He's just expressing his _opinion_ ," he said with a smirk and printed 'opine' in the relevant squares.

MacLeod came back to the couch, the book open in his hands. "Here's the quote for Three Down," he said, "Oxford Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 1, Line 40. 'why may not that be the skull of a lawyer?' The word you want is 'lawyer'. He's told you what the gift is and where it is."

"With a lawyer called Victor Descartes or Janvier or any combination of the damned names!" Amanda's delight was short-lived. "How the hell am I supposed to track down one lawyer in a city the size of Paris?"

"Two choices." Methos laughed. "Internet or phonebook."

"And we have both." MacLeod hefted the phonebook onto the coffee table. "Take your pick."

Amanda grabbed the book and riffled through to the D's. "Lots of Descartes, but no Victor Descartes or Descartes-Janvier listed," she muttered, and leafed on to the J's. "Janvier, Janv--yes! Victor Janvier, and he's at 3 Rue de Descartes! That ties in with four clues--it has to be him!"

"You do realize," Methos said dampeningly, "that it could lead us to yet another clue and if you're lucky, another piece of jewelry."

"Serge wouldn't be so cruel," Amanda assured him. "Though the poem-exhibition link was sneaky. That nearly beat me."

"It did beat you." Methos snorted. "One o'clock in the morning and you're kicking our door down?"

She gazed at him wide-eyed. "Do you know how weird and sweet that sounds?" she said. "' _Our_ door'?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered. "It makes sense, that's all."

"Perfect sense," MacLeod agreed, smiling. "Sandwiches and coffee first, then we go meet this lawyer." He lifted the phonebook from Amanda's lap. "I'll give him a call and make an appointment."

But Victor Janvier would not agree to a formal meeting. Instead he suggested a rendezvous at a restaurant near his office that evening.

"There is a deadline involved," MacLeod pointed out and the lawyer chuckled.

"That isn't a problem, I promise you. There are no more clues to chase. Eight o'clock at Chez Didot? Perhaps Mademoiselle Toussaint would care to wear the earrings?"

###

Mademoiselle Toussaint would. She wore a deceptively simple black dress, form-fitting with a strappy top, and the rubies in her ears caught fire in the lights. She entered the small restaurant on the arms of her two escorts like the Queen of Sheba entering her throne room, and every head in the place turned.

The Maitre'd led them to a table in an alcove set for two, and the elderly man sitting there rose and bowed over her hand. There was a distinct lack of packages about his person and Amanda mumbled something under her breath. She breathed a sigh of relief when he lifted a long narrow package wrapped in gold foil from one of the chairs.

"Mademoiselle," he said. "Victor Janvier at your service. Perhaps you will allow me?" He held out the box and she unwrapped it, taking more care than MacLeod had expected. Nestling on white velvet was a ruby collar and a matching bracelet, the stones glowing with deep, exotic fire in their S-motif settings.

Speechless, Amanda nodded, and Janvier fastened them about her throat and wrist with deft fingers. The gems seemed to come alive against the perfection of her skin.

Janvier kissed her hand, then gestured to MacLeod and Methos. "Messieurs, please be seated. This table is yours for the evening at Monsieur Foucard's request and expense. He thanks you for the help you gave Mademoiselle Toussaint. If you would come with me, Mademoiselle? The final piece and your dinner companion await."

Her expression became almost transcendent. "Serge?" she guessed, and MacLeod knew that Amanda cared for the man more deeply than most of her lovers. "He got back sooner than he'd planned?"

"He did. This way, if you please." He gave MacLeod a conspirator's wink. "I believe he wishes to discuss certain aspects of this treasure hunt. Such as the--how did he put it?--the flagrant and shameless cheating..."

"Hah!" Amanda snorted. "You can't cheat if there aren't any rules!" With the lights of battle and eager anticipation glittering in her eyes, she followed the lawyer across the room to another secluded booth.

"You know," Methos said, appreciation rich in his voice as he watched her leave, "she really is one hell of a woman."

"I'll drink to that," MacLeod agreed. "God broke the mold when He made her."

There was a brief pause. Then; "Thank God," they said in unison.

...end...


End file.
